by Jay Kristoff
“Little Chloe nodded to her comrades gathered in their booth. The priest had his head bowed in prayer. The ashen-haired boy was smoking what looked to be a traproot cigarelle, staring at me like something he’d found on the bottom of his boot.
“‘We’re traveling that way too,’ Chloe said. ‘We can share the road.’
“‘Ohhhh,’ I breathed, taking another drink. ‘Won’t that be lovely?’
“Chloe frowned, uncertain at my tone. ‘There’s safety in numbers. Ossway is rough country, believe me. And some of the feet following us don’t belong to mortal men.’
“‘Only some?’
“Chloe fell silent as the taverne lass returned, plonking my room key down in front of me, along with a bowl of steaming mushroom ragout and a slab of potato bread. Eyeing the spudloaf with contempt, I began shoveling down the rest.
“‘Anything else, adii?’ the lass asked.
“I took another swig to wash down my ambitious mouthful. ‘More vodka.’
“The lass eyed me with clear skepticism. ‘Are you certain?’
“‘Terribly certain, mademoiselle.’
“The girl glanced at Chloe and then shrugged, spinning on her heel. I smiled as I felt the room spin in her wake, pushed my bottle across to Chloe. ‘Drink?’
“The sister was looking at me strangely. Pretty green eyes roaming my face, the sword on the table in front of me, the needle holes in the breast of my greatcoat where a sevenstar had once been stitched. She sat silently as I finished my meal. I even stuffed the potato bread down in the end. And finally, she spoke.
“‘Are you well, Gabriel?’
“‘I’m fucking marvelous, Sœur Sauvage.’ I thumped the empty vodka bottle down. ‘But forget me. Last I saw, you were holed up in the San Michon Library, eleven years and a thousand miles ago. The hell are you doing down here in Sūdhaem?’
“Chloe glanced around the taverne, wary of the few curious eyes still on us. She pulled her chair closer, speaking in conspiratorial tones. ‘God’s work.’
“I looked at the gear she was wearing, the companions she traveled with. ‘I wasn’t aware sisters of the sorority were permitted to leave San Michon unaccompanied by silversaints? Let alone dressed like a common sellsword?’
“‘It’s … complicated.’ Chloe lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘I’ll not speak of it here. But things changed a great deal around the monastery after you and Astrid—’
“She caught herself, looking up into my scowl.
“‘Go on,’ I told her. ‘After we what?’
“Chloe combed one mousy curl off her freckled cheek. She spoke slow, choosing her words with utmost care. ‘You and Azzie didn’t deserve what they did to you. I was sick with it every day afterward, and I’m sorry that—’
“‘So sorry you didn’t even come to tell us good-bye?’
“‘You know I wanted to. Don’t be a bastard, Gabriel.’
“‘In life, always do what you love.’
“Chloe frowned then. ‘You’re drunk.’
“‘You’re perceptive.’
“The lass returned with my second bottle, and I gave her a dramatic bow, apparently charming enough for her to muster a smile in return. My arm didn’t hurt at all anymore.
“‘Merci, chérie,’ I sighed, breaking the wax. ‘Your blood’s worth smoking.’
“‘Perhaps I should leave you to it.’ Chloe eyed me up and down as I took a fresh swallow. ‘We can talk more in the morn when you’ve a clear head.’
“‘… Talk about what?’
“‘About the road we’re to share. When you wish t—’
“‘I don’t think we’ll be sharing roads anytime soon, mon amie.’
“‘You said you were traveling north?’
“‘Oui.’ I toasted her with my new bottle. ‘But I plan to float, not walk.’
“Chloe’s frown deepened. ‘Gabe, this is no jest. The roads through Sūdhaem and Ossway are thick with the Dead. I’ve need of a sword like yours.’
“‘Have you now?’
“The sister turned her stare to the blade on the table before us, speckled with mud and blood. ‘It’s not through chance alone that I find the Ashdrinker again tonight. Nor blind luck to be reunited with her master after all these years.’ She looked up at me, fire in her eyes. ‘This is Almighty God’s will. And blessed are we who share in his divine providence.’
“‘Well, huzzah and hurrah,’ I nodded, swallowing another burning mouthful.
“Chloe glanced around the room again. Leaning forward, she lowered her voice, barely audible above the taverne’s hubbub. ‘Gabe, I’ve done it. I’ve found it.’
“‘Congratulations, Sœur.’ There were three Chloes in front of me now, and I directed my query at the middle one. ‘But … what’s it?’
“‘The answer.’ She reached out her little hand and grasped my own. ‘The weapon we need to win this war, and finally put an end to this endless night.’
“‘A weapon?’
“She nodded. ‘One no coldblood under heaven can withstand.’
“I felt my brow furrow. ‘Is it a blade?’
“‘No.’
“‘Some work of chymistrie, then?’
“Chloe squeezed my hand again, her voice brimming with fervor. ‘It’s the Grail, Gabriel. I’m talking about the bloody Grail.’
“I looked Chloe Sauvage in her big, pretty eyes.
“I leaned slowly back in my chair.
“And then, I fell off it laughing.”
VI
PROMISES, PROMISES
“THE GRAIL OF San Michon,” Jean-François murmured.
“Oui,” Gabriel replied.
“The cup that caught the blood of your Redeemer as he died.”
“So the Testaments say.”
“Pretend you are more of an expert on scripture than I, Silversaint. Explain.”
Gabriel shrugged. “Well, after his acolytes betrayed him, the Almighty’s one begotten son was captured by priests of the Old Gods. At the end of seven nights of torture, the priests strung him up on a chariot wheel. They flayed his skin away to appease Brother Wind, burned the flesh beneath to please Father Flame, cut his throat to feed Mother Earth. And at the end, they tossed his body into the Eternal Waters. But his last faithful follower, the hunter Michon, was so aggrieved at seeing her master’s blood lost in the dust, that she caught it up in a silver chalice. That cup became the first relic of the One Faith. And Michon, the first Martyr.” Gabriel sniffed. “Bugger of a job, really.”
“Children’s tales,” the vampire mused.
The Last Silversaint leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head. “As you like it.”
“This Sauvage woman must have been a simpleton.”
“She was one of the shrewdest bitches I ever met, truth told.”
“And yet she put stock in peasant superstition?”
“Twenty-seven years ago, leeches were considered peasant superstition by most. And your Empress Undying must put stock in it too. Else I’d already be dead.”
Jean-François looked Gabriel over with glittering eyes.
“The night is young, Chevalier.”
“Promises, promises.”
“You first scoffed at the tale, same as I.”
“That I did.”
The vampire brushed the edges of his quill with one sharp fingernail. “How did Sister Chloe react, then, when you laughed in her face?”
“Well, she wasn’t turning cartwheels. But I was too shitfaced to care by then. Chloe looked down on me with something between pity and anger as I rolled on the floorboards of the Perfect Husband, laughing as if she were jester to Emperor Alexandre himself.
“The old Sūdhaemi priest made his way over, hands tucked in his sleeves. His skin was wrinkled as a walnut’s, dusk dark. He wore the sigil of the Redeemer’s wheel about his neck; a perfect circle forged of pure silver. Worth a fortune those nights.
“‘Is everything well, Sister Chloe?’ he asked, lookin
g at me with bemusement.
“‘Oh, it’s more than well, Father,’ I chuckled, wiping away the tears. ‘Our Chloe here has found the answer, don’t you know?’
“‘Mind your tongue, Gabriel,’ she murmured.
“‘She’s found the end to the endless fucking night, no less!’
“‘Shut your mouth!’ she commanded, kicking my shin.
“The chatter around the commonroom had stopped, and every patron in the pub was busy with the spectacle of me making a complete twat of myself. The serving lass looked mournfully at the mess I’d made. The lad Dior was staring at me with pure contempt through his cigarelle smoke, though the young soothsinger raised his cup and grinned.
“It was at that moment the taverne door opened, admitting a blast of freezing sleet and a doughy, middle-aged Elidaeni man. His face was flushed, his powdered wig askew. Sausage fingers were adorned with silver rings, and he clutched a crook staff. His red robes were embroidered with scripture, and the sigil of the wheel hung about his neck. He was surrounded by militiamen from the gate.
“Glaring about, the man’s gaze settled on the publican.
“‘Mme Petra,’ he said. ‘Are visits to your establishment from honored gentry so frequent no one thinks to fetch me when a silversaint arrives in it?’
“‘We were afeared of disturbing you at prayer, Bishop du Lac,’ the woman replied, eyes downturned. ‘Apologies.’
“I looked this priest over. Noted the way the mood had fallen in the commonroom at his entrance. Even though he was Elidaeni born, he clearly had the run of the town. In the nights of famine and suffering after daysdeath, there wasn’t a single game in the empire that prospered like the Holy Church. When hell had opened its gates, it was only natural commonfolk turned to the priesthood for guidance. But I’ve met believers in my time, coldblood. And I’ve met politicians. And I’d have bet my troth ring that this bastard was the latter. Too well fed, too well dressed, and too fucking sure of his welcome in the world. So, I tossed the hair from my eyes. Raised one unsteady finger at his robe.
“‘I just love your dress.’
“‘You’d do well to mind your tongue, monsieur,’ the man warned, ‘lest I have you whipped through the streets like a disobedient hound.’
“‘Well that’s not very polite.’
“He looked me over—sprawled on the boards with vodka in hand, unshaven jaw, bare, dirty feet. ‘And you hardly look a man deserving of politeness.’
“Leaning on his silvered crook, the man puffed up like a peacock.
“‘I am Alfonse du Lac, Bishop of Dhahaeth. I am informed a member of the Ordo Argent is come among us.’ He looked about each patron in turn. ‘Pray, where is the good frère? I desire a word or three, none of which can wait.’
“The serving lass nodded to me. ‘That’s him, Your Grace.’
“The bishop’s mouth fell open. ‘It … is?’
“The man glanced at Chloe beside me, who simply shrugged. My stomach burbled a sternly worded complaint as I swayed to my feet. The suspicion I shouldn’t have downed an entire bottle of peasant-still vodka was slowly rising, along with the threat of second dinner.
“To his credit, the bishop recovered quick, crossing the commonroom and shaking my hand so vigorously his wig began slipping. ‘It is my honor, Holy Brother.’
“‘As you like it,’ I growled, dragging my hand free.
“Du Lac straightened his wig, altogether flustered. ‘Your pardon, I beg you. Had I known you were en route, I would have met you at the gate. Long months have I beseeched High Pontifex Gascoigne to send us aid against the marauding Dead. I thought perhaps His Holiness might send a few troops. If I had known he would send a bonafide silversaint—’
“My stomach burbled ominously. I held it still with one hand as the rest of me swayed with the building around us. ‘Should’ve never eaten that spudloaf…’
“Chloe held my arm to steady me. ‘Gabe, you should sit down.’
“‘Frère, please,’ the bishop begged. ‘I’d speak with you alone, if I may.’
“I squinted at the powdered curls atop the man’s head. ‘I think your cat’s dead.’
“‘Gabriel, you should drink some water,’ Chloe warned.
“‘Pardon me.’ The bishop glared at Chloe, cheeks flushing. ‘I am conducting official parish business here. Who exactly are you, madame?’
“‘Well, first and foremost, I’m not a dame. I’m a demoiselle.’
“‘Forgive me. I presumed you’d be wed. A woman of your age—’
“‘I beg your pardon?’
“‘He doesn’t look too well,’ one of the militiamen said, eyes on me.
“‘He doesn’t feel too fucking well either,’ I confessed.
“‘You just drank an entire bottle of vodka, Gabriel,’ Chloe scowled.
“‘Who are you, my mama?’
“‘I wish to God I were. I’d have taught you not to make an arse of yourself in public.’
“‘In life, always do what you love.’
“The rest of Chloe’s comrades had joined the growing commotion on the commonroom floor. The Ossian lass with the slayerbraids was standing beside Chloe, one hand close to her many blades. The dandyboy stood behind her, that mop of ash-white hair hanging over his eyes. I had the almost irresistible urge to brush it the fuck out of his face.
“The handsome one was at the bar, chatting up the serving lass.
“‘Good Frère,’ the bishop said to me. ‘We should dine in my home. How long will you be staying with us? Have you missive from Pontifex Gascoigne?’
“‘Why would I have a letter from that tubby shitstain?’
“Chloe elbowed my ribs to shush me. ‘Bishop du Lac, apologies, but the good brother is not in Dhahaeth on His Holiness’s business. He’s leaving with us in the morning.’
“The dandyboy piped up. ‘No, he’s not.’
“‘Dior.’ Chloe turned to the lad. ‘Please let me handle this.’
“‘He’s not coming with us.’
“‘Do you even know who he is?’
“‘I don’t care who he is.’
“‘Dior, this is Sir Gabriel de León.’
“A gasp washed over the commonroom. I felt a tremor roll among the militiamen, the bishop looking at me with renewed wonder as he made the sign of the wheel.
“‘The Black Lion…’
“‘This man has killed more coldbloods than the sun itself,’ Chloe explained. ‘He’s a sword of the empire. Knighted by Empress Isabella’s own hand. He’s a hero.’
“The boy dragged on his cigarelle, looked me up and down. ‘Hero, my shapely arse.’
“‘Dior—’
“‘He’s not traveling with us.’
“‘Damn right I’m not,’ I growled.
“‘See? He doesn’t even want to come.’
“‘Damn right I don’t.’
“‘And what need have we for a drunken pig anyway?’
“‘Damn ri— wait, what the fuck did you say?’
“‘You’re a drunken pig.’ The boy puffed up in his fancy coat and blew smoke in my face. ‘And we’ve as much need of you as a bull has of tits.’
“‘Fuck you, you little shitgrubber,’ I growled.
“‘Ah. A rapier wit to boot.’
“‘Speaking of boots, perhaps you fancy one of mine up that so-called shapely arse?’
“‘You’re not wearing any, monsieur.’
“The Sūdhaemi priest chuckled into his beard. ‘Touché.’
“‘Who the fuck asked you, god-botherer?’
“‘Enough!’ The bishop stomped his polished heel. ‘Everyone not directly involved in town business will vacate this establishment, immediately! Alif, clear this room at once!’
“The man beside the bishop nodded, and the soldiery set about rousting the clientele. The townsfolk grumbled, but the militiamen cared little. And then one of the soldiers reached toward that smart-mouthed dandyboy, and sudden hell broke loose.
“The Ossian lass seized the soldier’s wrist. Twisting him about smoothly, and with a swift kick to his arse, she sent the man staggering into his fellows. ‘Dinnae touch him.’
“Predictably, the militiamen reached for their cudgels. But quick as snakes, the clanswoman slung that battleaxe off her back, beautiful and gleaming. Monsieur Ladykiller over by the bar was suddenly standing atop it, a crossbow slung off his back. And Chloe drew that silversteel longblade faster than I’d ever seen a nun move.
“‘No closer,’ she warned, blowing a rogue curl out of her eyes.
“‘I am bishop of this parish, and my word is law!’ du Lac bellowed. ‘Lay down your blades, or by Almighty God, there will be blood!’
“Patrons ducked beneath tables as the soldiers drew their steel. The familiar threat of violence hung in the air, hammering in my veins with the bloodhymn, the vodka’s fire, the adrenaline in my still-grumbling belly. This whole scene was headed south of heaven quicker than a back-alley wristjob.
“So, with a sigh, I picked up my fallen sword and drew it.
“The blade’s song rang in the air. Everyone in the room fell still, eyes on the weapon in my hand. Unreadable glyfs were etched down its length, the dark starsteel glinting like oil on water. Its edge was curved, its point jagged, half a foot missing from the tip. The beautiful woman on the hilt held her arms wide, silvered, ever smiling.
“‘The Ashdrinker…’ the rake breathed.
“They know us, Gabriel, came her voice in my head. The b-blade that cleft the dark in twain. The man the undying feared. They r-remember us … e’en after all these years.
“I turned a slow circle among the mob, making certain everyone was still.
“Ye hast the look of hammered shite, by the by.
“‘Shut up,’ I whispered.
“The bishop’s face was shining with sweat. ‘I said nothing, Chevalier.’
“‘Keep it up, then.’ I glanced at Chloe, then back to the militiamen’s blades. ‘Mayhaps you and your friends have outstayed your welcome, Sœur Sauvage.’
“‘Mayhaps.’ She nodded, backing toward the door. ‘Where’s your horse?’
“I scoffed. ‘I’m not going with you.’
“‘But, Gabriel…’
“‘Ah, splendid.’ The bishop smiled, mopping his lip with a kerchief. ‘This rabble are of no consequence. I bid you come to my home, Chevalier, we have mu—’
